


Meant To Find You All These Years

by Neotoma



Category: DCU - Comicverse, The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, JBBS 2009, Jingle Bells Batman Smells, Long Lost Sibling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotoma/pseuds/Neotoma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart deals with a message from his Mom; it's a little more complicated than 'I love you. Take care of yourself'. Make that a <em>lot</em> more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meant To Find You All These Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nobl3sse_obl1ge](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nobl3sse_obl1ge).



> Written for the [Jingle Bells Batman Smells 2009](http://jbbs.speed-force.net/) story exchange. Thanks to [greenygal](greenygal.livejouranl.com) and [peoriapeoriawhereart](http://peoriapeoriawhereart.dreamwidth.org/) for betas.

"Tim! Tim, I need to find Captain Boomerang! Thenewone!" Bart yelled as he careened through the doorway of Tim's Titans Tower room and upset half a dozen documents that Tim was laying out, trying to find a pattern to his latest case. "Everything you have on him, canIhaveit?"

Tim didn't even hesitate. He pulled open a cabinet, pulled out his hard-copies and the attached thumbdrive. A quick flip through the printouts and photos -- his files were always up-to-date, but he always double-checked his work, too - and he was sure that he had a complete file of his detailed investigation of Capt. Boomerang, once a Rogue, once an Outsider, late of the Suicide Squad, which might actually live up to its name for the bastard.

It isn't until he's handed the files over and Bart has zipped out with a shouted "Thanks!" that Tim even thought to wonder why Bart would be interested in that particular Rogue at that particular moment.

* * *

Max Mercury was trying to settle back into his life, but having been officially 'dead' for years made it a bit strange. Not as strange as coming into his kitchen to find Bart at the table, shuffling through manilla folders stuffed with official-looking documents, clipped newspapers, and reams of yellow legal notepaper. _Shuffling_, not Speed-reading.

"Bart?" Max asked.

Bart looked up. He looked distressed, his mouth turned down and his eyes tight.

"What's wrong?" His coffee would have to wait.

"I don't know what to do, Max." Bart said, his words coming faster as he went along. "Mom asked me to find him and I did but he's _bad_, and he's dangerous and a Rogue_, _andRobin willbesoangrywithme--"

"Who, Bart?"

"My brother--"

"Your brother?" Max barked. When did Bart have a _brother_? Except, Max winced, the Flashes time-traveled like some people caught the bus. '_When?' _was indeed the operative question.

Bart startled, fell off his chair, spun around the table, and sat back down again, carefully arranging himself for maximum composure. Obviously, the information about his brother - _where had_ that _come from_? _A brother_? - had discombobulated the young speedster.

"DreamygavemeadatacrystalbeforeIcamebacktoNow. FromMOM! Ihavealittlebrother!"

"...All right," Max said. That didn't sound too distressing. Meloni Thawne had been a fairly young woman when he had met her. She'd come across as dedicated and driven, if a little hard to understand since she only spoke InterLac and Max had Speed-learned that language from Bart - but she had loved Bart enormously, and finally done right by him by sending him home to Max, instead of trying to keep him while fighting her rebellion in the future. She could have had another child. Was Bart saying she had another son and had sent _him_ to the past as well? It certainly sounded like it.

"Momtoldmetofindhimandlookoutforhim. Becausethat'swhatolderbrothersaresupposedtodo! SoIaskedOracleforhelpfindinghim - IhavehisDNAoncrystal," Bart picked up dull hexagonal stone off the table. It certainly looked innocuous, but Max knew future-tech could be misleading. "Oracle, becauseOracleknows_everything_! Andshefound_him_."

Bart stopped to breath, and then spoke slow and clear, "I wish she hadn't."

Max blinked, then deliberately set up his coffee machine, carefully measuring grounds and water, changing the filter, switching it on. After he had done all that, he turned around to lean back against his kitchen counter and look at Bart, who was fidgeting in his seat, drumming on the table, tugging on his hair, and generally being as jittery - as a teenaged speedster could be. He vibrated, enough to cause a low hum in the kitchen.

"Why do you say that, Bart?"

"Becauseit'sawful! He's-my brother-- he's Captain Boomerang!"

Max froze at that. "The Australian?"

Bart made a face, and yelped "No! The_new_one. Nottheoldfatone! Euuuu! Except,ohmigod,thenewoneistheoldone's_son_ andifhe'smybrotherthanMomsleptwiththeoldoneand - EYUUUUUUU!"

"The new one?" Max asks. He hadn't known there was a new one. Get lost in the Speed Force for a few years, be behind on the times when you get out. Add the time-travel hijinks the various Flashes got up to, and things became very confusing.

"Yeah. He's," Bart stuffed all of the documents into the folders and held them out Max, "trouble. A **Rogue**. ButMomwantedmetolookafterhim? WhatdoI_do_?"

Max took the folders from Bart and set them down on the table. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

The first page was a neatly printed summary of the life of one Owen George Mercer, late of Central City. The black and white image printed at the top was of quite a young man with short-cropped hair, a goatee that he probably had to make himself look older, and light eyes - Max wondered if they were yellow like Bart's. His features were sharp and a bit weasel-y, and he did look something like Bart, but no more so than any number of young white men might.

Adopted by John and Sara Mercer as a toddler, decent grades in elementary school, his father's death in a highway collision when he was 11, poorer grades in middle school, disciplinary records at high school before dropping out at 15...

"Bart, where did you get this information from?" It was ridiculously detailed about Owen Mercer's early life - why would anyone have dug up his middle school transcripts, or his Cub Scout membership records?

"Robin!" Bart explained, "I asked him for everything he had on Captain Boomerang."

"And he had all this?" Of course he did; Batman had made his apprentices as thorough as he was. Hopefully Bart's friend was a little more even-keeled than his mentor; Max had always though that Gotham's most famous superhero was wound just a little too tight.

Bart nodded.

"Why?" The Batman controlled Gotham. Owen Mercer seemed to be a Rogue, or ex-Rogue, and they stayed close to Keystone-Central.

"Old Boomerang killed Robin's dad - it was this whole thing with the Atom's ex-wife and it wasreallycrazy. He--" Bart waved his hands, indicating the files, and thus the new Captain Boomerang, who probably _was_ Bart's brother (younger brother. Oh lord what a mess time travel made), "showed up just after."

"Robin thinks this young man is a threat?"

Bart shook his head. "Robin'sjustparanoid! Andangrybecauseofthecostume!"

Max raised his eyebrows at that, but flipped to where he could feel several photographs. Full color, they showed the young man in a leather jacket, and dark pants, with silvery greaves over his boots, and a patterned scarf around his throat. His eyes were not yellow like Bart's - maybe green or hazel, hard to tell because the photos were not portraits, but obvious snapshots. Owen Mercer was quite blatantly wearing a variation on his predecessor's - his biological father's - costume.

Of course, Bart's friend Robin would be angry to see his father's killer getting such a tribute.

Max glanced at the snapshots again - it appeared that Owen Mercer was skilled with his weapon, ferocious in combat, an asset to his team (the Suicide Squad, Belle Reve's butcher boys, the home away from home in federal custody that most of the Flash's Rogues had passed through - so young and so damned, if he belongs to Waller, Max decided), and in one last image, silver-eyed and sparking with faint and familiar lightning.

"He's a speedster?" Max gasped.

"Kindof? Hethrowsboomerangsfastbuthedoesn't_run_well. Robinhasplanstousethatagainsthim, ifheneedsto, becauseRobin'sgotallofBatman'sbadhabitsandevenKonthinksso."

Max flipped back to the biography, appalled that another speedster had sided with the enemy. Bart certainly didn't need a brother that he might have to combat - _another _brother, considering what Inertia had been and tried to be.

Max rubbed at his face. "Let's start again, Bart..." Maybe Bart could come up with a coherent - and sensible - plan, if Max only talked to him long enough.

* * *

The apartment in Hub City was listed to 'Ian Mersinger', which was a cover ID that was completely solid, according to Robin's notes. Of course it was, the Suicide Squad was a government agency - if they wanted fake IDs for an operative, it'd be a good fake ID. Bart found waiting for Owen to come home from his cover job boring (finance and accounting department at an international shipping and freight company, _why?_), boring, and boring with a side helping of boring. Even with a electronic reader loaded with most of the Gutenberg Project didn't hold his attention well while he waited.

But finally - finally - Bart spotted Owen Mercer parking an older sedan in the lot and going into the building. He didn't follow him. Instead, he took out a kitchen timer and set it for five minutes before tucking it in his belt.

Then he went for a run - slow at first, but then fast when he was outside the city and racing down the river. When he was far enough out - when he'd hit ocean - he sped up again, letting the _boom _break over the water. He ran until the timer ticked down, then went back and vibrated into the building, and then found his brother's apartment, and vibrated through the door as well.

It was a nice apartment, small, but cozy with a comfy if hideously ugly couch and an enormous entertainment system. Owen took his television serious, going by the plasma screen and speakers. And was that a multi-region DVD player?

He stepped closer to see if it was one of those neat DVD/DVR/burner combos.

And was shoved into a wall.

Owen Mercer had bright green eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a kitchen knife under Bart's chin. _Oops_.

"What the fuck do you want?!"

"Ineedtotalkto_you_!" Bart yelped, then winced, because he'd done it at Speed.

The older man blinked, but didn't pull his weapon. Bart was confident he could vibrate through it if Owen decided to stab him, but he wanted to try talking first. He drew a breath deliberately, trying to calm down to repeat himself.

"What? Why me, kid?"

Bart blinked in surprise. It wasn't as fast as he'd talked, but Owen could - _had_ \- talked at Speed.

"I think you're my brother!"

"What?!" _That_ made Owen lower the knife, lower it and stumble back from Bart.

"I was in the future, and Dreamygavemeadatacrystal. MyMomleftit forme - she wantedme to findmylittlebrother. Ididn'tknowIhadabrother! ButMomhadanotherkidafterIcamebacktoNowthefirsttime, whichis_you_ \- atleastOraclesaysyourDNAmatchestheDNAcodeMomgavemeformybrother!"

Owen stared at him, and then sat down on his ugly olive second-hand-at-best couch.

* * *

Batman didn't normal get involved in Flash's business. It was professional courtesy. But when Bart Allen went off half-cocked into a situation that even Oracle didn't a handle on, upsetting Tim in the process, Dick had to get involved to protect his brother. Which meant Batman had to get involved.

After using the JLA transport to get from Gotham to Hub City , Dick found the window locks to Owen Mercer's apartment easy to crack. For someone who was apparently working undercover for the government, his operational security was poor. He had hoped to get there before Bart, to defuse what was going to be a messy situation by pulling on Owen's occasional bursts of compassion and good sense, but he could hear Bart's nervous chatter even as he slipped the window up silently.

"...so there you were, Oan Thawe -- that's how we say it in the 31st century, 'Oan', it's the InterLac vowels -- and Mom had to send you back to the 20th century with your dad because Grandfather Thawne was siccing the Science Police on them because your dad was an anomaly and they deal with time-travelers. Really nastily, actually..."

Dick had expected something more disastrous, considering how volatile and combative he'd always found Boomerang during the speedster's time on the Outsiders, but he was sitting on the couch and listening to Bart as the young hero chattered.

Dick hesitated - Bart seemed to actually be connecting with Owen. The older speedster's head tilted towards Bart in interest, and he nodded when the boy paused. Dick considered leaving before either of them noticed him, but of course, that's when Owen looked up.

And threw a kitchen knife at him, catching his cape and pinning him to the wall. Dick hissed - he wasn't hurt, but there was no way Owen hadn't intended that. For all the faults he clung to and manners he ignored, Owen didn't miss, any more than Roy missed. He had intended to_immobilize _Dick.

"Batman!" Owen roared, his genial 'I'm just a working joe' facade completely drowned by his more familiar obnoxious anger, "What the fuck do_you_ want, you bastard?"

"Boomerang," Dick growled, trying to catch Bart's eye and get the kid away, "Kid Flash knew not to come here. He's going, and you're not following."

"You ran me out of the Outsiders," Owen snapped back, one hand picking up a ceramic coaster off his coffee table (_weapon, throwable, therefore dangerous, _Dick snapped through the assessment on automatic. Boomerang was deadly with improvised weapons), the other pushing Bart back against the couch as he shifted forward - putting Bart behind him, in a _protected_ position_, _"so I don't have to take your fucking orders anymore, you asshole. You don't give the kid orders either; he's welcome to stay as long as he wants to, as long as I want to listen. Cause if I wanted to listen to someone who treats me like a chesspeice again, I've got all that I can stomach from the Wall, you manipulative son of a bitch. I don't work for you and I don't owe you jackshit. If you think you can tell me what to do you can go screw yourself!" Owen snarled, and then took a breath, seemingly shocked by his own tirade. His eyes were wide, and he visibly deflated, his fury cooling, "...And you're not even him?"

Dick stiffened at that. Behind Owen, Bart's eyes were wide, and his hands were flapping in denial. He hadn't told Owen anything about Dick wearing the cowl - then how..?

"What the _fuck_ are you doing in that outfit, Nightwing?" Owen asked, sincere confusion mixed with anger. Dick was more than a little appalled that Owen turned out to be quite _that_ observant, that he realized Dick was not the Batman he'd known with a glance. Obviously, Dick had severely underestimated the man during his tenure on the Outsiders, when he'd never seemed interested in anything beyond his next beer, his next movie, and his next fight, and not getting on Grace's bad side. Well, that was a sign of intelligence, if anything; Grace hit _hard, _and beside his Speed, Owen was squishy.

"Oh..." Owen murmured, understanding coloring his words, "Big Daddy Bat got himself killed, did he?"

Dick bristled at Owen's flippancy. Owen himself blinked, as if surprised that he figured that out. He shook his head and held up his hands placatingly.

"Okay, it's been a hell of a day," he said, and then turned to look at Bart, "And you're my kid brother? I so need a beer." He stood up and heading into the kitchen area, opening the fridge. "Hey, kid, you want a beer?"

Bart tilted his head, but smiled, "Sure, thanks, and I'm not a kid. I'm older than you."

Owen paused in the act of pulling out two long-necks. "Are not."

"Am too." Bart's chest puffed out a little. "I was born first."

Owen rolled his eyes. "But you're not older. You can't be more than what, fourteen?"

"I'm sixteen! In relative time," Bart said, "I've only really lived about seven years consecutively."

"I've lived twenty," Owen countered. "I win."

Owen was deliberately ignoring Dick. Blatantly, obviously, pointedly pretending he wasn't there. It was a childish move, and Dick was annoyed how effective it was. He pried off the knife pinning his cape to the wall, and dropped it to the floor, watching as Owen smirked at him. There was the obnoxiousness he'd expected.

"Kid Flash, can I speak to you alone?"

Bart glanced at Owen - asking if it was okay that they were excluding the other speedster, Dick realized. Owen nodded, and gestured with his beer. "Bedroom's in there."

Dick followed Bart into the room with as much dignity as he could muster, even though he's not had a very good night yet. It looked like Owen still didn't pick up his socks and generally lived like a slob. Nothing rubbed off on him from his days in the Outsiders, nothing at all.

Dicks sighed. He wanted to nip this relationship in the bud, because Owen was dangerous to Bart, and Bart was important to Tim. And Tim had had a very bad past few years. "Bart," Dick began, trying to find a way through that won't make one of his little brother's best friends run straight into the arms of trouble. "Owen's not in a good place. How much do you know about him?"

Bart stood up straight, and looked Dick in the eye, "I read Robin's file. I know everything."

_Everything_? Tim's notes are frighteningly thorough - the Captains Boomerang, past and present, were something of a disturbing interest for Dick's little brother. "Are you sure? He's not a good person, Bart." Owen was useful, a good hand in a hard fight, and surprisingly loyal on occasion, but not by nature a_good_ person. Maybe he had tried to be, once, but had chosen Waller and the Suicide Squad of his own free will.

"I know he's done wrong. I still want to try."

Dick sighed. "I do not think you hanging out with him is a good idea, and I really don't like what he's doing on Suicide Squad. He's running with dangerous people. He always has."

"Wasn't he with you?" Bart asked. He's not exactly wide-eyed about it, either. Clear-eyed, maybe. Uncompromising, in a way Wally never quite had been.Dick was suddenly away of all the ways that Kid Flash isn't his older cousin.

Dick felt a bit embarrassed , when it came down to it. One question, and Bart had him admitting some of his more haunting regrets of his time leading the Outsiders. "Yeah, and I wasn't good for him either... but I don't want you to get hurt trying to save him."

"It's my choice to make, Batman," Bart said, sober, and suddenly so adult that Dick could weep for the childish delight he used to bring with him. Dick knew the face of someone who wasn't going to be argued with, no matter what you said to them.

There was nothing more Dick could really say here, so he nodded. "Don't let yourself get hurt because you think you owe Owen anything, Bart. I don't want you hurt, and Tim wants you to be okay."

"I won't get hurt, Batman. I promise, I won't. I know what I'm doing," Bart said.

Dick had no choice now. He opened the bedroom door, and let Bart out. He was careful to speak loud enough that Owen could hear, but not so loud that it seemed to be deliberate baiting, "I'm going. I'll talk to you later, Kid Flash."

"Ok, kid," Owen said from the other room, as the JLA transporter dazzle surrounded Dick, "Are any more superheroes going to show up? No? Then let's talk about what you want from me. Slowly...."

* * *

Just watching the young man move across the restaurant made it obvious that he and Bart were brothers - they tilted their heads the same way, in interest or confusion, pushed themselves forward at the shoulder similarly, and Owen's smile was a fainter echo of Bart's exuberant grins. He must have gotten his calmer nature from his father - and that was a shocker, since Max knew what Owen's biological father had been like (_treachery and distemper, wrapped around a selfish, sullen core_) - because neither Bart nor their mother could be called 'calm'.

"Thank you for meeting me," Max said, first thing.

"No problem," the young man said, tilting his head, polite enough but with a hint of wary observation in his green eyes. "Bart's been nice. I don't mind doing him a favor. Meeting his guardian didn't seem hard."

"Are you hungry?" Max lifted his hand for a waiter, and let Owen order himself scotch eggs, loaded potato skins, and nachos with guacamole, and a glass of the draft on tap. For himself, he had a pale ale, and a roast beef.

"You drink?" Max asked, after the waiter left.

"My ID says I'm legal," Owen said, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"'Ian Mersinger' is legal," Max conceded, "according to everything I've read about him. I just want to know what he's here for."

Owen tilted his head. "I work in finance and accounting at Dumont International - it's a holding company, shipping and freight, mostly."

"You don't look like a bookkeeper."

"I don't?" the young man asked. He looked down at himself, made a show of examining his conservative khaki slacks, pinstriped shirt, plain tie, and sports coat. Owen had traded his punk-ish earrings for less confrontational studs, which was just the right tone for an office worker - one of any number of young men who conformed during the day, and were slightly wilder at night.

Max sighed. "Perhaps you do. But why a bookkeeper?"

"Believe it or not, I'm good with numbers," Owen said. "Especially ones that _don't _add up. Like for example, a ship that's fuel costs are too high for the distance it traveled and the cargo it had on the manifest."

Max thought about it for a moment. The Suicide Squad was investigating something, perhaps something large, and Owen was just one man on the ground, following a paper trail.

"I would have thought they had more experienced people for that sort of thing - financial discrepancies, I mean."

Owen grinned. "I'm multi-talented, and I'm good at this."

Max wasn't sure if he liked that.

The waiter returned with beer, and Owen's collection of grease disguised as food. The young man dug in with the enthusiasm of youths everywhere, whether or not they were speedsters.

"Hey Max. Hey Ian," Bart was suddenly at their booth, bright eyed, jittery, and not at all expected. Max had wanted to talk to Owen Mercer_alone._

"How was your day?" Bart continued, sliding into the seat beside Owen, and grabbing one of scotch eggs off his plate.

Owen grinned, his face suddenly startling open as he faced Bart. "I put an expensive trip for the entire northwestern sales force on hold, because it was poorly documented and completely extraneous to the company's middle-range goals. I expect to be called up tomorrow; either I've done a great job watch-dogging the company's accounts, or put a monkey-wrench in someone's plans."

Bart tilted his head. "Okay? That's good?"

"It's very good."

"Your job is weird."

"No, _your _job is weird," Owen countered. "I'm controlling costs and making sure every nickel and dime is accounted for. It's amazing what you can find if you follow the money."

"Bart," Max broke in. "What are you doing here?"

Bart looked up from the swirled mess he was making of Owen's nachos. "Eating nachos?"

"Bart..."

"Hey, he just wanted to see me." Owen said, "It's cool."

"I was trying to talk to your brother - about his _lifestyle_."

"My lifestyle?!" Owen yelped. Startled and indignant, his resemblance to Bart picked up.

"Your _associates_."

"If you don't like my _associates_, you can-OW! Bart! That's my foot, munchkin!"

"Sorry," Bart said, and ate another nacho. "Also, I can't be a munchkin. I'm older. But you can be a munchkin, if you want. You're supposed to humor little brothers, my friends say."

Owen glanced around, and hissed, "For the last time, Bart, stop saying that. Everyone thinks you're joking when you say that, but some day someone will listen and the game will be up."

Bart stopped in mid-munch, and looked down. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Munchkin."

Max put a hand over his mouth to stop himself from snorting. Maybe they were going to be real brothers; they'd certainly begun to act like ones.

* * *

Bart tried not move to quick, not vibrate or spin or touch the Speed in anyway as Owen handed him a wrapper that smelled delicious. Sitting quietly on a park bench was _hard_! Especially with Owen waving food under his noise.

"What is this?" Bart asked, sticking his nose in the paper and inhaling the smell.

"Toasted ravioli. It's a Hub City specialty. Hey, use a fork!"

Bart looked up. Owen was holding out a plastic fork and frowning at him. Bart rolled his eyes, but took the utensil and tried to eat slow. He didn't exactly succeed, because he was done and looking at Owen's own wrapper full of tasty toasted pasta before Owen had more than a forkful.

"You don't have a tapeworm, do you, kid?"

"No, just a," Bart hesitated - Owen had made it clear that Bart could only visit him when he said, and only if Bart didn't give any hint of Speed or superheroic identity, "...fast metabolism."

"Heh," Owen snorted, and dug into his own food. "You suck at covert ops, don't you?"

"I'm trying!" Bart yelped. He was. He was wearing civilian clothes and not even in nice colors - boring grey and blues, instead of his preferred yellows and reds. "You said I could keep coming if I followed your rules, and I _have_!"

Owen sighed. "About that, Bart..."

"Owen, you promised!"

Owen frowned, and then looked up at Bart, straight in the eyes. "I know I did. But things changed, Bart. We can't meet anymore, at least for a while."

"Why not?" Bart asked. Asked, not whined - he was superhero, he didn't whine, no matter how unfair Owen was being by changing their agreement.

"I have to go deeper undercover."

"What?" Bart yelped. "Why?"

Owen sighed, and looked down at his hands. "I can't tell you much. This is a government operation. I'm probably going to be moving out of the city for the job, too, so you won't be able to find me."

"How long will it take?" Bart asked.

"I don't know."

Bart thought that didn't sound good. "Will you be back?"

"Yeah, of course," Owen said, much too confidently.

Bart still didn't know his brother that well yet, but he was getting better at spotting Owen's bluffs. So he stared at Owen instead of nodding.

"Of course," Owen huffed out a breath and added, "If I don't make it, you'll get a message. Calculator will be holding it - he's reliable if you pay him in advance."

That was _serious_! Calculator was the bad guy drop-box, Bart had learned. He gulped, and asked, "Owen, I can help you. I've been a Titan for years. I know how to deal with villains."

Owen smiled, one of the rare gentle smiles that Bart thought might be just for him. Then he reached up and ruffled Bart's hair. "Supervillains, maybe."

"Like there is anything worse than a supervillain. Except maybe anti-matter alien supervillains."

Owen did that eye-brow cock that Bart wished he could pull off - it was pretty neat. "Supervillains stand around and monologue at you, in my experience. It's the normal guys who are just doing 'business' that you have to be scared of."

"Normal crooks are easy." Bart said. "I can deal with them."

"These aren't normal crooks - we're talking gun-runners, human traffickers, smugglers willing to deal in nuclear devices - and they do it under the cover of legitimate businesses. They'll just _shoot_ problems, Bart, because they're in it up to their eyeballs and there's millions of dollars in the job. That's what the Squad is involved in. And that's why it has to be secret."

"I could help! You know I could. It's not like they could actually _shoot_ me, you know."

"Bart, you're a great kid, but I've seen you in action. You'd bust in with your yellow and red pajamas-"

"It's not pajamas. It's spandex. It cuts down on wind and friction, when I drop out of the Speed Force," he grumbled, folding his arms. "It's not like you don't wear _colors_, too."

Owen chuckled. "Mine are armored. Not spandex. Best Kevlar and ceramics the boss could commission, for the weight involved. And I don't wear them when I'm working covertly. And I _am_ working covertly, Bart."

"I just want to help, Owen," Bart said.

"I know you do, Bart. I know. You're the best little brother in the world."

"I'm older," Bart insisted.

Owen laughed, and ruffled his hair again. "Best older brother, then."


End file.
